I will Follow
by Anawey
Summary: Unable to convince Watson to stay home when he tries to enlist in WW1, Holmes decides to follow his dearest friend into battle.  Rated for future violence and intensity.


I will Follow

...

Unable to convince Watson to stay home when he tries to enlist in WW1, Holmes decides to follow his dearest friend into battle. The problem; they're in different units.

...

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes. That all goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do, however own the boys of the Twenty Third Londoners Infantry, and Watson's battalion, The Fifteenth Medico-Artillery. Also, I make no claim to accuracy, especially considering how far the nearest real recruitment office in London was from Baker Street.

...

Wherever You May Go  
XxX

He could scarcely believe it. He'd found the papers lying innocently on the doctor's desk earlier that day. When he'd realized what they were, he swore his heart stopped.

Enlistment papers. Holmes was stunned. How could Watson, _his _Watson, re-enlist in the army after he'd nearly died the first time?

They were supposed to spend the decline of their lives in alternating between Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson insisted on _not _selling their rooms – despite the fact that neither still lived there ('If you want to visit from time to time, you'll have a place to stay') – Watson's place in Kensington, and Holmes's little cottage in Sussex.

Holmes remembered well the extents of Watson's old injuries from the second Afghan War, and how close the shoulder wound had come to claiming his life.

How could he think to risk himself in such a way a second time?

Two hours after finding the papers, and Holmes was still too shaky and shocked to stand up. With a shiver, he pulled his mousy dressing gown closer around his spare frame.

"Oh God, Watson," he whispered.

"Say something?"

Holmes jumped at the voice from the doorway. There stood his Watson, doctor and dearest friend.

What little color that had returned to his face since the disheartening discovery of the papers drained away at the wonder if he would ever have the luxury of seeing Watson's dear face again.

"Holmes, are you alright?" Watson asked, hazel eyes darkening with worry. "You're awfully pale."

_Ha, _Holmes thought bitterly. _You'd be pale as a fish-belly, too, my dear Watson, if you discovered that your best friend was intending to re-enlist in the army._

But he did not say the thought aloud. Rather, Holmes forced a smile, and uncurled his long legs, standing from his armchair, and reaching quickly for the mantle, as much to steady himself as to reach for his pipe.

"Oh, I'm quite fine, Watson," he assured breathlessly.

Watson was not fooled.

"You don't sound well, Holmes," he worried.

_Would _you _sound well if _I _were to enlist? At my age?_

"A bit of a shock, that's all, Watson," Holmes sighed, lighting his pipe and puffing on the comforting instrument. The smoke calmed him, and eased his frazzled mind, soothing his racing heart, and clearing his senses.

He saw Watson's eyes go to his desk, and suddenly, even his pipe wasn't enough to keep Holmes calm and sure.

"Holmes, if you feel up to it," Watson began tentatively, "there _is _something I must discuss with you…"

Unable to speak of a sudden, Holmes merely nodded, sinking once more into his chair as Watson picked up the dreaded enlistment papers from his desk.

"Now Holmes," the doctor said gently. "Don't get upset. And please, don't yell."

Here, Watson took a deep breath, and the pain in Holmes increased a hundred-fold; his best friend was about to go and put his life in danger in a way he never had while with the detective.

How could this be happening?

"I picked up the papers just the other day," Watson continued. "I'm re-enlisting in the army."

Holmes found his throat tightened more than ever, and he had to look away to keep his emotions in check and hidden.

"Holmes?"

Finally able to find his voice, Holmes whispered, "No."

"I must," Watson sighed. "I have a duty to others, Holmes."

Silence reigned for some time, Holmes staring at the fire, jaw set, clearly not about to speak.

"Holmes," Watson whispered. "Please understand. You have done your part, now I _have _to help. I _must _do something."

Holmes did not respond, other than to close his eyes, breathing deep through his nose.

"I can't sit around and do nothing, Holmes," Watson continued. "Those soldiers will need experienced medical help."

"Then they can find someone else," Holmes growled. "Watson, we are _both _too old for this. You say _I _need to understand? I _do _understand, Watson. I understand that you are willing to risk your life without any thought to the consequences. I have glimpsed what is to come, Watson, it is not worth it."

"Holmes," Watson replied, "if I save just one life, it will be worth it."

"Worth it for whom?"

Holmes's voice was bitter, and Watson sighed again.

"I'm going, Holmes," he said softly, a firm edge to his quiet voice.

Gray-green roved to meet hazel, and there was despair in Holmes's eyes.

"You will not be otherwise convinced?" he asked, voice void of hope. He knew his Watson better than that.

"Not by anything," Watson replied.

Holmes's eyes hardened, and he stood, disappearing into his room.

"Holmes?" Watson called, surprised. "Holmes, I'm sorry if you are upset, but I _am _enlisting in the army. The papers are to be turned in the day after tomorrow, I – Where are you going, Holmes?"

Holmes was dressed in his shirt, waistcoat, tie, pants, and jacket, and had his coat in his hand, as he reached for his hat.

"Out," Holmes replied. "I will not be back for an indefinite period. I shall see you later, Watson."

Watson was completely thrown off guard by Holmes's actions. He'd thought there would be more coaxing on the detective's part, more cajoling, and attempts to make him stay, not this sudden acceptance of his decision.

Was he so upset that he wanted nothing more to do with him? Watson prayed that was not the case. He had not meant to upset his dear friend, but he felt he had to go, and thus, go he must.

He only prayed Holmes would not be too terribly upset.

Mrs. Hudson entered the room not much later to find Watson sitting in his armchair, staring at the fire.

There was a sadness in his eyes that was obvious to any who cared to look.

"I take it Mr. Holmes didn't take matters too well," she said softly, handing Watson a cup of tea.

Watson sighed.

"He did not," he replied.

Mrs. Hudson smiled encouragingly and patted the doctor's shoulder.

"I'm sure he'll come around in time," the old woman assured gently. "But don't you worry about Mr. Holmes, Doctor. After you leave for the front, I'll look after him, even if I have to go to Sussex with him to do it."

Watson had to smile at their one-time landlady's continuing concern for her old tenants.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," he whispered, taking a sip of his tea.

Mrs. Hudson left not long after, and to keep himself out of his thoughts, Watson decided to write up a few more of his and Holmes's old cases, determined not to dwell on his decision to join the army.

...

...

Holmes went straight to the nearest recruiting office, brooding all the way. If there was nothing that could convince Watson to stay where Holmes could protect him, then Holmes would go with Watson.

He had survived this far because of his Boswell, it was only right for him to return the favor for however long this new war may last.

Therefore, he would enlist in the army, and fight alongside his Watson. He would sign on, despite being sixty years old already, and protect his only friend to the best of his ability. Like always, they would stand side-by-side and fight together, coming out of everything alive, if not entirely unscathed.

He opted to walk, rather than take one of the motor cars, and as such, it took him considerably longer to get there.

A bell above the door chimed as he walked into the small office at 2 Jamaica Road. In the corner there was a desk, and behind it, a stern-looking man sat looking over a large ledger book.

Holmes took a deep breath and walked toward the man.

The fellow at the desk looked up as Holmes came over. He had a thick, short beard of brown, and serious dark eyes that stared intensely at Holmes from under scraggly brows.

"Is this where I would sign on to the army?" he asked, looking more at the book than the other man.

Fighting a war at sixty was the last thing Holmes wanted to do, but he would not – _could _not – let Watson go alone.

The man behind the desk gave Holmes a sharp look, and pushed the book toward him.

"The Twenty-third Londoners," he said flatly.

Holmes took up the pen, and scrawled his name on the register. He was handed the papers, and he signed them right there.

...

...

On his way home, Holmes passed a young girl sitting outside of a house, looking lost. The child glanced up at Holmes, and called on him for aide.

Holmes looked down at her, and forced a smile for the girl's benefit.

"Where do you live, then?" he asked her gently, motioning for her to follow close to him.

"Two twenty three Baker Street."

_Now _he recognized the girl. Watson had once asked him to help him in tending her mother years ago, when the now woman had been the little girl, recently moved to Baker Street.

"Well, you _are _a long ways from home," Holmes mused. "Come along. I know the way."

After not too many minutes, he was obliged to hail a motor cab, and sat beside the girl. He gave the driver directions, and held tightly to the handle of the door, his knuckles turning white.

Holmes swore he would never get used to motor cars, and if it wasn't for Watson enlisting in the army when _both _of them were too old for such stunts, he wouldn't be riding in one now.

At the curb before two twenty three Baker Street, the girl hopped out, and Holmes slid quickly out after her, feeling far more comfortable on solid ground.

He paid the driver, and turned to go when something wrapped around his legs.

"Thank you, sir," the little girl smiled. Then she was skipping back toward the door of her home, and Holmes continued to his own.

He found Watson asleep in his chair, and sighed. If the fact that the man could hardly make it through the day without nodding off wasn't proof enough that neither of them should be going to war, he didn't know what was.

But Watson _had _signed on, and as a result, so had Holmes, and so, here they were.

Rather than wake his friend, Holmes took his pipe from the mantle, lit it, and curled up in his own armchair, puffing quietly.

...

...

In the morning, Watson found himself slouched in his chair, covered with a light blanket. Holmes was on the couch next to him, long frame curled into a ball, the familiar afghan half on the floor.

For a moment, Watson was transported back across the years to the last time they'd fallen asleep in just such a position. It had been after that Snidely smuggling case, which had been terribly hard to solve, and had seen Holmes in bed for a week that winter with influenza.

Now, of course, they were not just returned from some strenuous case. No, now they were there because Watson had enlisted, and Holmes had left, upset, while Watson sat about until he'd fallen asleep.

And the differences between then and now did not end simply with the events that led up to their waking up so. Now, they were older. In fact, even six feet from his head, Watson could see the beginning strands of gray in Holmes's hair. And Watson knew his was worse.

Oh, _what _had he been thinking?

Yes, he wanted to help, but it wasn't fair to himself, or Mrs. Hudson, _or _Holmes. The poor fellow had always, in his own way, been very protective and concerned about Watson. Was it right that he should have to worry?

Was it right that _anyone _should have to worry?

No, but what could he do? _Not _enlist? There was no other way. And Holmes would understand. He always did. All would be well, and in the end, Watson would return to his dear friend and the quiet life they treasured.

"Ah, Watson, you _are _awake."

Holmes's eyes were not open, but he had rolled to lie on his back, and Watson had the distinct impression that Holmes was watching him.

"You return your papers tomorrow?" he muttered. "I daresay you may find mine already in the pile, my dear Watson."

For a moment, Watson was speechless. How could Holmes…

"Are you _mad?" _he hissed. "Holmes, there was no – _is _no – reason for this –"

"There is _every _reason for me to go," he replied sharply. "When the only thing keeping me at the _home _front is going to be out there fighting."

"But Holmes, you're –"

"I'm _what, _Watson?" Holmes growled. "_Too old? You, _my dear fellow, are the older of the two of us, and if _I _am too old, then certainly _you _are."

For a long while they both simply stared at each other. Then finally, Watson sighed, and slumped in his chair.

"What have we gotten ourselves into?" he wondered. "Perhaps you are right, Holmes. But what can I do? I've given my word to enlist, _you _already have; it seems we are stuck."

"You don't have to go," Holmes whispered from where he stood by the window. The sunlight highlighted the gray in his hair, and again, Watson was reminded that they were no longer in their prime, either of them.

"I do," Watson corrected quietly. "I do."

"Then so must I," Holmes sighed.

Silence again filled the room, until in came Mrs. Hudson.

"Sirs, I brought you some tea and lunch."

But the way she spoke, quiet, sad, the old woman had heard everything.

"Mrs. Hudson, I _do _wish you would stay and eat with us," Holmes called after her.

The meal was silent and uncomfortable, but all found it was still easier for the friendship and company of the other two.

XxX  
I've been flip-flopping for so long between this and another idea, and this one won out.


End file.
